"How do you know that?" Stacy asked.
Wells answered for the major: "Looks like the handiwork of the Secret Service out there."
Gant dared to rise tall against a banyan tree for a clearer view.
"I count five bodies. They all look to be dressed like island civvies. Torn up really good, too. Probably armor-piercing rounds. But I do not see any weapons near the deceased."
"Wait a second," Stacy broke in — but quietly—"why would the Secret Service shoot civilians?"
Gant knelt next to the other two and said, "Look at the bodies. It appears they were headed toward the cottage when they were shot."
Wells asked, "Chief, what about that movement?"
Gant stood again to eye the bungalow.
"I saw something moving through the side window. Could be the senator or his escort. I don't see any bodies out front that look like service or a senator."
The major watched the scene for several minutes and said nothing. Even with his eyes facing away he could sense Stacy fidgeting in the dark, no doubt fighting the urge to undo her mask.
Benefits aside, MOPP gear was nothing but a pain in the ass. Suffocating, reduced mobility, horrible sight lines. Throw in the oppressive heat and even Gant felt himself on the verge of going stir-crazy inside what felt like a body bag.
He knelt again.
"You will need this," he said, reaching to her thigh and pulling the M9 pistol there from its holster.
She seemed surprised to see it, as if it were a forgotten accessory on the outfit.
"I understand you have been trained."
"Yes, um, of course."
He provided the added service of cocking the slide and handed it to her grip-first.
"I really don't want it," she protested.
"I do not care what you want. You are coming with me to investigate that cottage," he replied. He turned to the other soldier and said, "Jupiter, cover us from here."
Specialist Wells nodded to the major, then told Stacy, "Stay cool. And don't shoot yourself in the foot, okay?"
She smiled beneath the mask. A little.
Stacy and Gant set aside their kits and other loose equipment. Gant tapped her on the shoulder and signaled her to lower her night vision again, as he did, too. Then they darted into the open, racing to the side of the hut. The major then stretched to glance in the open side window.
He saw nothing, so decided to lead her to the porch.
As they worked their way to the front, they both got a good, up close look at the dead bodies. Gant's theory about armor-piercing bullets seemed to hold true; the bodies had been ripped apart by gunfire. Limbs were blasted off, heads were splintered, and torsos were riddled with holes. Thankfully, the grainy image of the night vision made it all seem less real — almost cartoonish.
Still, it was an awful lot of carnage, as if the shooters had kept firing after putting down their targets.
Those bodies grabbed Stacy's full attention. She hovered over the mess, entranced or sickened or both by the sight. Certainly, she had seen her share of death in the past. Her resume listed assisting in a battlefield hospital in Libya as part of her real-world experience.
That was, however, a different set of circumstances. While she certainly must have found the sight of blown-apart human beings unsettling, Gant figured her mind was doing what his was doing: cycling through all the possible reasons why the Secret Service had felt obliged to slaughter unarmed tourists.
No, not just slaughter them; tear them to pieces.
The difference between Gant and Stacy was that Gant could file away that curiosity and focus on more immediate concerns. If Stacy were to survive with Archangel, she would have to develop a similar means of prioritizing her concerns.
He reached over and tugged on her arm. She jumped, as if his gloves had delivered a shock. She then cast her eyes downward, embarrassed at her reaction.
He wanted to tell her not to worry about it, not to regret a natural human reaction. But in truth that was another part of this job she would have to master to survive; suppression of "normal" human instincts.
Life is much easier when you are a well-programmed robot.
The two separated and moved to either side of the open front door. Gant counted down from three with a free hand while holding his carbine with the other. After "one" he raised his weapon and led them inside. Stacy followed with the pistol in two shaky hands.
They entered an empty room. Through the grainy image projected by his night vision goggles Gant saw bloodstains splattered across the carpet and dripping from the sides of a wicker sofa. He stumbled and found that he had nearly slipped on dozens of shell casings.
Again, his well-trained mind prioritized: movement from the other side of a half-open closet door made him focus on a potential threat. Gant snapped against the inside wall and drew Annabelle's attention to the door. Despite a foggy gas mask, he saw her eyes grow wide. He thought he could hear her heart thumping through the layers of bio warfare protection but then realized that, no, the thumping belonged to his own heart.
As he watched her raise her pistol and point it toward the closet, he hoped she remembered the most basic rule of using a firearm: know what you are shooting at. That's how little kids get shot by jittery homeowners who think there's a burglar in the house. Never shoot at a shadow, or movement. Know your target.
Gant could only hope she had listened to her trainers. Fear, unfortunately, could easily crowd out training.
Except for me, he thought. Training always trumps fear … or compassion.
He held his breath and swung the door open.
Something jumped from the closet. In his night vision, it seemed like a blurry blob, accompanied by a shriek that might have been one part fear and another part battle cry.
His experience and instincts sorted out the vision as fast as any battle computer. The blob held the silhouette of a man. Gant's eyes searched for and found his arms, and at the end of one of those arms in a hand was—
Gun. He's got a gun!
In a flash, he brought around the stock of his M4 with a side helping of elbow for extra measure, striking for the chin. A split second later his left hand pulled free of the horizontal grip and slammed down on the stranger's wrist, easily dislodging a handgun, with both weapon and person hitting the floor at about the same time.
At that point, Major Gant drove his left knee into the man's chest, pinning him to the floor with the business end of the M4 in his face.
"Identify yourself!"
Words came from the pinned fellow's mouth one after another in a series of incomprehensible sounds. For a moment, Thom thought the man spoke a language with which he was not familiar. After listening for a moment he realized the stranger spoke English, but English through a filter of exhaustion and fear.
Gant took his measure. Broad shoulders and, given the pain in Gant's elbow, he figured a relatively sturdy jaw. As for clothes, the stranger wore a windbreaker that had been clawed and torn by something, maybe an animal. Regardless, any type of jacket in this hot and humid environment seemed out of place.
He then retrieved the man's handgun and examined it, mumbling, "SIG Sauer 226. Looks like you ran out of ammunition."
At that point, Major Gant released him, feeling an ache in his left knee as he stood. Only a few months ago that knee had suffered a bullet wound. The joint worked, but did not feel quite right.
The man stopped blabbing and put a hand to his jaw.
While they waited for him to gather himself, Thom turned to Stacy and said, "I believe we have found a member of the senator's Secret Service detachment." He held the gun for her to see. "Standard issue U.S. government. Also empty."
Dr. Stacy relaxed. Sort of. At least her pistol dropped from ready to standby.